


armistice

by orphan_account



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Main Video Game Series)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-29
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-13 08:04:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/821927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the kind of shit they just don’t teach you in boot camp.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. love vigilantes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yoshi12370](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yoshi12370/gifts).



> penance for that one time i said i'd write a hardenshipping fic and then never did, oop (゜д゜;)  
> (this is probs only gonna be like three chapters and will undoubtedly take forever for me to finish, lol)

The war starts when he’s seventeen.

 

At the time, it’s all he and his friends can talk about. They debate tactical strategies during lunch break at school. They hang flags out their bedroom windows and spray-paint a patriotic mural on the old water tower east of town. They watch the news with an almost religious fervor, keeping track of every victory and grieving every loss. And when their eighteenth birthdays roll around, one by one they all enlist, smiling young soldiers eager to do their country proud.

 

At the drop of a hat he can list ten reasons why it’s necessary. Ten reasons why those Kanto bastards had it coming. Ten reasons why fighting is the only way.

 

(But years later, after the dust has settled and everything is said and done, he won’t be able to remember a single one of them.)

 

.

 

.

 

His plane gets shot down.

 

He’s heard horror stories about it, of course – about pilots hit over enemy territory. Most of the time their bodies are never recovered, files still marked with the glaring red stamp of ‘MIA.’ The few that do make it back are never quite the same, their eyes gone all empty and cold. But he’s never imagined such a fate for himself. He is far too cocky and far too young; convinced, in that way that foolish kids often are, that some kind of providence is on his side.

 

But in the end it happens. He gets hit by one of those impossible-to-spot Kanto espionage units, the first shot ripping off part of the right wing and the second tearing open a hole in the fuselage. Panic sinks its teeth into his heart as the plane shudders around him, plunging unsteadily downwards, beginning to turn into a nosedive. In the back Hewlett starts screaming, yelling at him to do something for fuck’s sake but he _can’t_ , suddenly he can’t remember his training at all. The plane is spinning dizzyingly, the engine is cutting out, his palms are so slick with sweat that he can barely keep hold of the controls and oh god the ground is rushing up to meet them so quickly –

 

Hewlett’s next scream shakes something in him, and he promptly snaps back to reality. He yanks up on the controls, trying desperately to get the plane somewhat level, all the while deploying every drag device at his disposal. He jabs at the communications, shouting “mayday, mayday” but his voice is hardly audible above the ominous groan of the engine and the rush of wind. He’s trying everything but the plane is hardly slowing its descent. He’s trying everything but they’re going to crash, they’re going to die, fuck he’s too young for this he’s only twenty-one he hasn’t _done_ anything yet –

 

The nose of the plane hits the treetops, and a second later everything goes dark.

 

.

 

.

 

He wakes with a groan.

 

His first, bleary thought is of relief. By some miracle of the universe he isn’t dead (yet), and he finds himself laughing shakily, manically even, the remnants of adrenaline still thrumming in his veins.

 

And then the pain and dizziness hit him like a fucking freight train.

 

From the way his chest feels – like he’s being stabbed with sharp knives every time he draws breath – he guesses a few of his ribs must be broken. His wrist, too, since he can barely clench his fist without shock waves of pain threading their way up his arm. And there’s something warm and wet dripping into his eye, pouring in rivulets down his cheek. Blood from some kind of head wound, he supposes, which would explain the lightheadedness all too well. Must’ve smacked his head against the dashboard on impact.

 

“Hey,” he calls hoarsely. “Hewlett, you okay back there?”

 

No response.

 

Frowning, he reaches over with his good hand and extricates himself from the safety harness with some difficulty. His fingertips brush against something at his waist, and for the first time since takeoff he remembers that he brought his Pokemon with him. One of the Pokeballs is completely shattered, destroyed in the crash, and he assumes the Voltorb inside must be long gone by now.

 

And so, it seems, is Hewlett. Surge peers back into the wreckage and sees no trace of his comrade, though the emergency hatch is flung wide open. Maybe he went for help? Or he took Surge for dead weight and set off on his own. Either which way the guy must still be alive, which is a load off Surge’s conscience. Could never forgive himself if someone died aboard his plane.

 

Surge hauls himself up on unsteady legs, walking over to the emergency hatch and peering down. The plane is lodged precariously in the branches of an ancient-looking tree. If he listens close enough he can almost hear the tree groaning from the weight of it, which he takes to be a bad sign if there ever was one. Time to get the fuck out of dodge, he thinks. But how? There’s a rope hanging down, secured on the handle of the hatch, which Hewlett must’ve used to get down. But with his wrist throbbing like a bitch, looking more and more swollen by the minute, climbing doesn’t seem like much of an option.

 

He reaches back for one of his Pokeballs, bringing out his Magnemite. The creature tilts to the side in midair, scrutinizing its surroundings, single eye widening in what might be concern.

 

“Hey now, don’t worry about it,” Surge says, gritting his teeth in what he hopes is a reassuring smile. “We’ve been in worse jams before, right?”

 

Magnemite literally rolls its eye, making a low humming noise that almost seems exasperated. Cheeky little fucker.

 

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Surge sighs. “Not like I wanted to get shot out of the goddamn sky. Just help me get down from here, will you?”

 

Needless to say, the descent is awkward as all hell. He gets shocked twice, nearly dislocates his shoulder, and of course he just has to lose his grip at the end, crashing down to the ground with an undignified “oof.” The pain in his solar plexus is so intense that he almost blacks out again, and he lies there in the grass for a long moment, struggling to breathe. Magnemite flits around worriedly all the while, buzzing at him at an obnoxious decibel until finally he lifts its Pokeball and mutters “return.”

 

(Nothing beats Electric types, but man, a Pokemon with Vine Whip would’ve been so much handier.)

 

Surge struggles to his feet. He looks around. There’s nothing but green as far as the eye can see, tall trees clustered around him like watchful sentries, and judging by the dimness of the light the sun must be on the verge of setting.

 

He scrubs a weary hand across his face. So to recap: his plane is probably unsalvageable. He’s got some rather troublesome injuries and no way to treat them. And he’s currently lost in an unfamiliar forest in enemy territory in what will soon be the dead of night.

 

Truly, he thinks, this day could not get any better.

 

.

 

.

 

He writes it off as a mirage at first.

 

He’s been walking for what feels like eternity, his dizziness getting worse all the while, blood still dripping steadily from the deep gash on his forehead. All things considered, it makes sense that he would start conjuring stuff up out of his mind.

 

But as he shoulders his way through a dense thicket of shrubs and nettles he sees that no, it wasn’t just an illusion. It was real. A structure – more like a compound than anything, shingled roofs barely visible over stone walls overtaken by ivy. Surge finds himself smiling and sighing in relief, damn near breaking into a run before the pain informs him that such things probably aren’t a good idea. The place looks pretty old, but it has to have a phone at the very least, right? He can call the base for emergency pickup and they’ll come get him and halle-fucking-lujah he’s saved.

 

Grinning from ear to ear at this lucky stroke of fate, he puts a hand on the massive wooden door and pushes.

 

And finds that it’s locked.

 

Well shit.

 

All of his desperate enthusiasm drains in an instant. He could go looking for a back exit, he supposes, in hopes that it might be unlocked or at the very least easier to bust through. Or he could get Magnemite to hover him up over the top of the wall (though he’s not sure he wants to go down that route again).

 

Suddenly he is struck by a strange and foolish idea. Chalk it up to the blood loss, or perhaps something deeper. He knows that the civilians in this area have been evacuated. He _knows_ that there’s no one inside. And yet he can’t help but reach up and use the rusted bronze door knocker anyhow, the sound echoing like a gunshot across the treetops.

 

A minute passes.

 

From behind the door he could swear he hears footsteps.

 

Against all odds, the door swings open. There is a man standing in front of him, lantern in hand, staring at him with barely concealed contempt. He’s about a head shorter than Surge, a Kantoan through and through, with dark hair and a solemn set to his features. His age is debatable. Mid-thirties, probably, but that’s just a shot in the dark.

 

“Excuse me,” he says in perfect English. “You’re bleeding all over my doorstep.”

 

.

 

.

 

The man refuses to tell Surge his name.

 

“As if I’d reveal personal information to an enemy combatant,” he says, shaking his head scornfully. “What do you take me for, an idiot?”

 

Surge raises an eyebrow. “Says the guy who’s willingly treating the injuries of an ‘enemy combatant.’ Your priorities are way outta whack, dude.”

 

The man glares daggers at him, tugging a little too hard on the bandage he’s currently wrapping around Surge’s wrist. Surge lets out a hiss of pain between his teeth.

 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he exclaims. “Sorry, sorry! I won’t antagonize you any longer, O Gracious Savior. I am wholly at your mercy.”

 

He doesn’t seem to care much for sarcastic groveling either, but thankfully he merely ‘hmph’s in disapproval and continues bandaging. Weird guy. He’d let Surge into his house (more like a mansion) after a bit of pathetic wheedling; brought him to a spare bedroom to rest. Surge has never been inside a classic Kanto-style home before. The place is a little dusty and sad-looking, he supposes, but also rather beautiful, all minimalist and spare. He can’t stop staring at the hand-painted mountains and trees on the sliding paper doors, and past the doors a garden, Volbeat gleaming above a pond green with lily pads.

 

“So you a doctor or something?” Surge asks. “You’re pretty good at this first aid stuff.”

 

“No,” the man says. “I am a ninja.”

 

“Oh, of course. A ninja. That makes perfect sense.”

 

“… You doubt me?”

 

Surge laughs. “Sorry, bro, but this is the twentieth century. I’m pretty sure ninjas aren’t actually a thing anymore.”

 

Mystery Guy ‘hmph’s once more. “Just because you are ignorant to the presence of something does not make it nonexistent,” he says, securing the makeshift cast and then walking around to examine the wound on Surge’s forehead. It’s already been cleaned, so all that’s left is the stitching. He procures a needle and suture from god knows where and Surge braces himself for discomfort.

 

“Yeah, I guess you’ve got a point there,” he muses aloud, wincing as the needle pierces his skin. “Wouldn’t be much of a ninja if everyone knew about you.” A thought strikes him, then, and he narrows his eyes in suspicion. “Hey wait, isn’t there a draft on? You a dodger or something?”

 

“I most certainly am not,” the man says haughtily. “There are some of us who are exempt from such things.”

 

“Exempt from the draft?? Shit, that’s wild. You rich enough to pay off the feds, or…?”

 

“I am an independent contractor with the Kanto military and good god why in the world am I telling you all this? Shut up and sit still.”

 

Surge does as told, biting back an amused smile. But quickly enough his amusement begins to fade. If this man really is an “independent contractor,” then he’s technically not a civilian.

 

Which makes him the enemy.

 

Surge tries to keep his expression blank, but inwardly his thoughts are turning grim. What the hell is he supposed to do? He’s got no weapons other than his Pokemon. He can barely stand, much less fight. And even if he could, what then? Stick a literal knife in the back of the guy who just rescued him from the jaws of death?

 

This is the kind of shit they just don’t teach you in boot camp.

 

“If you’re with the military, how come you’re helping me?” he asks.

 

The man pulls a long, thin blade out of his sleeve (alarming, but okay) and leans over to cut the leftover suture. “I am not _with_ the military,” he says. “I am fond of this country, and I will defend it if push comes to shove, but I care very little for the petty politics involved in this war. And as for you… I’d much rather have an enemy combatant alive in my home than a dead body on my doorstep. Terribly unsightly.”

 

A bit of Surge’s unease leaves him, then, and he finds himself grinning. “Oh really? You sure you weren’t just taken in by my rugged good looks?”

 

Mystery Guy levels him with a stare halfway between irate and weary.

 

“I’m Surge, by the way. Matis Surge, but I prefer the last name. Has a badass ring to it, if you know what I mean.”

 

“… Matis, then,” the man says, his words tinged with a subtle, acerbic humor. A smile might be a long way off, but at least he’s capable of poking fun. “My name is Koga.”

 

“Oh really? What happened to ‘not divulging personal information,’ eh?”

 

The man – Koga – ‘hmph’s yet again. Surge considers starting a Hmph Tally.

 

“You introduced yourself,” he says. “It would have been dishonorable not to return the gesture.” He pushes himself to his feet, turning on his heel to walk away, but pauses in the doorway. “Good night, Corporal. I doubt you’ll get the urge to wander in your condition, but even so… Don’t.”

 

Koga slams the door shut behind him, and Surge is left alone in the dark with little other than his thoughts and his pain.


	2. cheer up you're not dead yet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> really shouldn't have started this when i had 27 other fics in the works, haha  
> *sings the 'i s2g someday this will be finished' song*

Sleep is hard to come by, but in the end he manages a few restless hours. When he wakes his pain is much worse than before, numbing adrenaline all but depleted, and he wonders if his gracious host keeps any drugs in this backwater place. Any self-proclaimed “ninja” has got to have a store of medicinal herbs and shit, right?

 

As he ponders this he notices the soft morning light filtering in through the paper doors, outlining a tiny silhouette against the screen. The shadow is small enough that it can only belong to a child. The door opens a smidge, and Surge can see a single, dark eye pressed up close, peering curiously into the room. (So Koga’s not alone in this mansion after all.)

 

“Hey there,” he says, and the crack in the door closes lightning quick. A shy one, huh?

 

He waits for a minute and sure enough, the door slides open a crack once again. The dark eye reappears. Surge doesn’t say anything this time; just smiles reassuringly and hopes he doesn’t look too startling. Seconds tick by, and little by little the door opens and a tiny girl edges her way into the room.

 

Surge has never been much for children. Annoying little fuckers for the most part, always screaming and crying and rambling on about nonsensical shit. Most of the time they aren’t nearly as cute as their parents seem to think. But this kid… This kid is so precious he almost can’t stand it.

 

She looks about four or five at most, with a heart-shaped face and dark hair gathered on top of her head with a pink ribbon. He assumes she must be Koga’s, but man, how did a grumpy asshole like that end up with such an adorable child? She shuffles her feet awkwardly, dipping her head in a faint bow, holding out a tray of food that seems far too heavy for a little girl to be carrying. She sets it down on the floor and pushes it towards him like she’s afraid to come too close.

 

Actually, she probably is. There’s a good chance that he’s the only six foot blond guy she’s ever seen outside of a military propaganda poster.

 

“Chill out, kid,” he says, keeping his voice soft. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

 

She blinks at him, fear slowly melting away into blatant confusion.

 

“… Right,” he sighs. “Damn. You probably can’t speak English, can you? I guess I thought since your dad can…” He stares down at the tray of food, wracking his brain desperately. “Fuck, what was it…? ‘Arigato’?”

 

The girl’s face lights up. She says something he doesn’t understand and sits down across from him, gazing at him expectantly.

 

Oh, right. The food. She wants him to eat. He examines it with a critical eye. Some rice, a bowl of soup, something that’s probably fish. Simple and straightforward, he supposes. (Speaking honestly it’s kind of a weird breakfast, but he hasn’t eaten a single thing in almost twenty-four hours. He’s at that stage of hunger where anything edible will do. They could set a live, wriggling Octillery down in front of him and he’d probably find some way to devour the creature.)

 

And oh fuck there’s chopsticks.

 

The girl seems to find his incapability utterly amusing. She tries her best not to laugh at first, but by the third time he misses his mouth she has to hide her giggles behind her hand. He glowers at her half-heartedly. Fucking Kantoans and their lack of proper fucking silverware. Jesus Christ.

 

Out of the corner of his eye he notices the girl staring at the Pokeballs hanging at his waist. So she likes Pokemon. Of course she does – he’s never met a kid who doesn’t. He plucks one of them from his belt and brings out his Pikachu, who seems relieved to finally stretch his legs. Poor guy must be starving, too. Surge proffers up the remaining half of his breakfast with an apologetic smile and a scritch behind the ears.

 

The girl’s eyes widen as she reaches out to pet Pikachu’s head; laughs delightedly when he leans into her hand. She watches Pikachu for a minute and then pulls a Pokeball of her own out of her pocket. A tiny Venonat emerges from within, blinking its multifaceted eyes curiously. Venonat and Pikachu stare at each other for a long moment, sizing each other up, then abruptly begin chattering away.

 

Must be nice, Surge thinks, to be able to understand one another so effortlessly. Pokemon have it pretty easy in that regard.

 

“How wonderful that everyone is making friends,” a voice says. Surge glances up to see Koga standing in the doorway, surveying their weird little multicultural breakfast meet-n-greet with distaste. The girl instantly snaps to attention. She jumps to her feet and bows her head respectfully, keeping her eyes downcast, like a soldier in the presence of their commanding officer.

 

“Aw, c’mon,” Surge says, cajoling. “Don’t be so grumpy. Our Pokemon are crazy cute together. Look at ‘em.”

 

“Mmhmm.” Koga glances over at Venonat and Pikachu but seems unfazed by their adorableness. He removes something from his pocket – a small white bottle – and sets it down next to Surge.

 

“Codeine,” he says. “It’s all we have, but it’s better than nothing.”

 

Surge could just about cry out of pure gratitude. Koga’s even unscrewed the childproof lid for him. Surly attitude aside, he is truly a hero among men.

 

“You’re the best,” Surge says, laughing weakly. “Seriously, man, thanks for everything. I’ll take some pills and, and, I don’t know, clean up whatever I happened to bleed on last night. And then I’ll call the base and get someone to come airlift me out of here, alright? Just point me to your phone and I swear I’ll be gone ASAP.”

 

Koga’s expression changes, then. His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, and his exasperated frown shifts into something nigh unreadable.

 

“Janine,” he says, and the girl stands a bit taller. He says something unintelligible and she looks taken aback for a moment before nodding her compliance; slips out the door with her Venonat on her heels.

 

He turns back to Surge. “We don’t have one,” he says.

 

“Huh?”

 

“A telephone. We do not own one.”

 

Surge promptly chokes on the pills he’s trying to swallow. He scrambles for the cup of tea on his breakfast tray and manages to down them with a gasp.

 

“Are you… Are you shitting me?” he wheezes. “You… You do realize what year this is, right? How can you not have a phone??”

 

“We simply have no need for one,” Koga says shortly. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a pressing matter to attend to.”

 

He slips away without a backwards glance, vanishing from view before Surge can voice a word of protest. Surge stares, stupefied, at the empty air where Koga was just standing.

 

So he’s trapped, then. Trapped in an eerie, mostly-empty compound in the middle of the woods with an irritable ninja and his four-year-old daughter. With only one small bottle of codeine to get him through the mending of multiple broken bones. And not a single practical eating utensil in sight.

 

Fuck.

 

.

 

.

 

The day is slipping away into dusk when he next sees Koga.

 

“Hey,” he calls out, and the man pauses in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder with barely concealed weariness.

 

“Yes? Do you need something?”

 

“No,” Surge says, “it’s just… You do realize there’s an evacuation order in effect for this sector, right?”

 

Koga raises an eyebrow. “Yes,” he says. “Your point?”

 

“My… My point? Are you shitting me? My _point_ is that I may not have a clue as to my current coordinates, but if I were to take a wild guess? I’d say there’s a fucking _battlefield_ not fifteen miles from here. And it could easily come closer any day now. You need to take your daughter and get the hell out of here, Koga.”

 

“This is our home,” Koga says. “Our family has lived here for many years, and we will not abandon it just because of some petty outside threat. You do not understand the – ”

 

“No, _you_ don’t understand.” Surge can feel frustration prickling at his skin like countless needles. “If the battle doesn’t clear up in a few weeks, my side is planning to carpet bomb this entire fucking sector!”

 

That gets Koga’s attention. His eyes narrow, and suddenly there is tension present in his shoulders, fingers curling at his side like he’s reaching for a weapon.

 

“… Should you really be telling me this?” he asks. His voice is low and dangerous.

 

“No,” Surge sighs. He slumps back against the pillows tiredly, trying to ignore the multiple stabs of pain in his midsection. “I really, really shouldn’t. I wasn’t going to say anything, originally. You’re a grown-ass man; if you want to ignore evac orders it’s your own damn fault. But your kid – Janine, right? She’s just a child. She shouldn’t have to get caught up in this shit.”

 

“Your concern is touching,” Koga says coldly, “but misplaced nonetheless. The battle will not last that long. I can assure you of that.”

 

“… What do you mean?”

 

But Koga merely smiles, thin-lipped and inscrutable.

 

“Get some rest, Corporal. All this talking might aggravate your wounds.”

 

.

 

.

 

The next day Janine is there again, pushing a tray of food towards him with a cautious smile.

 

“Ohayou,” she says, and points toward the sun, which is still low in the sky, barely visible through the trees. Something to do with the sun, then, or… No. Morning. She’s saying ‘good morning.’ Surge smiles back at her through the pain.

 

“O-ha-you,” he echoes, and she nods excitedly, eyes lighting up.

 

She pets Pikachu and Venonat as he attempts to eat his meal, and he studies her out of the corner of his eye. Is it really just her and her father, here in this almost-empty mansion? How often do they leave this place? Does she have any friends other than her Pokemon?

 

Is her mother dead, or did she leave them? Surge frowns at the thought and pushes it away. He shouldn’t get too curious about these people. Staying detached is best, he knows, because in the end they’re Kantoan, and this is war.

 

(She’s just a little girl, though, and her eyes are so lonely.)

 

He reaches for his other Pokeball and brings Magnemite out as well, much to Janine’s delight, and the three Pokemon are soon exploring the garden together. Pikachu comes precariously close to falling into the Goldeen pond and has to be pulled back from the brink by a flustered Venonat. Janine laughs, and Surge would do the same if it didn’t ache just to breathe.

 

“You’re a good kid, Janine,” he says. She turns to look at him curiously. She doesn’t understand a word he’s saying, but all the same talking to her is strangely cathartic.

 

“I hope your dad’s right,” he muses aloud. “About the battle in this sector. The sooner that shit’s done, the better. But…” He stares down at his hands, grimacing at the mottled swell of his left wrist. “Something’s _off_. He knows something that I don’t. He said he wasn’t with the military but that’s gotta be some kind of lie, right? What the fuck does ‘independent contractor’ even mean? He said he was loyal to this country so he can’t be a mercenary, but – ”

 

Janine’s pale, tiny hand comes up to rest on his shoulder.

 

“Daijoubu,” she says, thoughtful and solemn, and though Surge doesn’t know what it means it makes him feel better somehow.

 

“Yeah,” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Daijoubu indeed.”


End file.
